


It Went Sort Of Like This

by Yuval25



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'Cause of Sherlock, Army, Coffee Shops, Cute, Detectives, Drama, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, Love, M/M, Military, Police, Romance, Secret Relationship, Soldiers, War, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did not harbour silly crushes like some lovelorn teen with a Twilight obsession. Neither did he possess some intense sexual desire for people he met in the passing. Clearly, he was missing something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Stumble-In at the Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote it a while back in snippets. Go ahead :)

It started with a glance, a glare, a frown, and finally, a small, tentative smile. Or, you know, a bump-in at a coffee shop, a spilt cappuccino, a sister bearing a man's name, and a shared giggle. Either way, it started on a rainy Wednesday in central-London, when one John Watson desperately ached for a coffee and some time away from his drunk sister's nagging.

The next thing he knew, his caffeine delight was lost over some posh bloke's tailored slacks and he was at the receiving end of some mean, piercing blue eyes that possibly had the power of lighting his body on fire, because for some reason he felt warmth pooling in his gut and that couldn't be what it was, period. John did not harbour silly crushes like some lovelorn teen with a Twilight obsession. Neither did he possess some intense sexual desire for people he met in the passing. Clearly, he was missing something.

"I am... very sorry," he found himself mumbling messily despite his will to appear unaffected.

The glare turned into a frown as those impossibly sharp eyes scanned over him, making John flush.

"Um, let me buy you a coffee to compensate for that?" he tried again.

"Will it magically dry my clothes?" the stranger snapped.

He had unbearably high cheekbones, and damn John if he didn't find that insanely attractive. The curls wildly, yet at the same time managed, framing his face were a contrast to the paleness of his skin. His lips were plush and had an exaggerated cupid's bow that should have looked feminine, but only made the man's face appear sharper.

"I- no." John felt like he was a little kid being chided. He would not succumb to the man's imploring gaze, though. He was a soldier, damn it.

"Then there's your answer."

John had never felt as incredibly stupid as he did in that moment. "I _am_ sorry. I'll be out of your way, then."

As he turned to leave, the stranger spoke again. "Don't bother with rehab. He's not going to sign himself in."

John's jaw would have dropped, had he been that dramatic. Alas, he turned around to face the stranger with wide eyes and a question written on his forehead.

The stranger surveyed him for a moment, before he started shooting words at John faster than John had thought was possible.

It was hypnotizing, terrifying, and amazing all at once, and seemed to conclude in-

"-the stain on the bottom of your right trouser leg, that's vomit. There. Simple."

John was so gone.

"Brilliant."

The stranger smirked. "Spot on, was it? I didn't expect to get it right at once."

John couldn't help but point out the one thing that made that whole spectacle human.

"Almost," he said, a ghost of a smile catching his lips unaware.

"Oh?"

It was beautiful, how those pink, perfect lips curved around the air-filled sound.

"I don't have a brother."

The other man's eyebrows pulled right in bafflement and confusion.

"You don't?"

He seemed thrown back.

It was John's turn to smirk.

"Nope."

"You… you don't have a brother. You have a _sister_!"

John's smile widened and he couldn't stop the string of breathless giggles that left his mouth as the stranger let out a delighted chuckle.

Their eyes met, and John allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips.

The day might turn out not to be so bad, after all.


	2. Wonderfully Disastrous Dates

They've arranged to meet in a little place John knew, and it was pretty damn fantastic that John had managed not only to get the man's name – _Sherlock_ , who'd have thought? – but also to get him to agree to go on a date. For some reason, Sherlock didn't strike John as the dating type. Or the relationship type, really. John was a lucky man, indeed.

He was tempted to order something more than a glass of tap water to satisfy his rumbling belly, but etiquette demanded he waited. So he did. An hour. Then two. Then he gave up and ordered a Bolognese, wondering what he'd done wrong. Well, apart from spilling coffee all over the guy he'd asked out.

He was on his third fork when a form came busting into the restaurant, winding up the place like a tornado and stopping just short of colliding with the table John had picked.

"You're here."

The disbelief in Sherlock's voice was perfectly understandable – John was sure not many people usually waited this long for their date to arrive. John actually gave up on this date after the first half hour of Sherlock being a no-show, but he figured he could still catch a dinner while he was at it.

He swallowed before he answered, because he figured even if his date was spoiled, there was no reason to be grosser than he had to be.

"Well, I _was_ starving," he tried to play it nonchalant, but in the end it just looked as miserable as he felt.

But then, what was he supposed to feel after being supposedly quitted by a handsome lad on a first date?

He looked up at the panting figure and was struck by how young Sherlock actually was. While they never discussed their ages, John was certain he had a few years on the other man, who could pass for a uni graduate.

He supposed he could cut him some slack.

"Are you just going to stand there?" he asked lightly.

Sherlock grumped and practically threw himself into the seat in front of John, and John suppressed a laugh that threatened to bubble out of his throat.

"Why?" he asked simply, and Sherlock didn't fail to catch his meaning.

"A case. The police were having another one of their idiotic strikes so I stepped in."

John was surprised. That had not been what he was expecting at all. He figured Sherlock would not give him a pathetic excuse for bailing on him, but what he came up with was a far cry from anything John had imagined. He had expected a 'got held up by traffic' or a 'wasn't meaning to come, but decided to at least tell you I'm not interested', at most.

"You work with the police?"

Sherlock shot him a look, like 'don't be ridiculous', and John swallowed.

"Right. Detective, then? But the police don't go to private detectives." John was utterly dumbfounded.

"I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world," he proudly stated. "I invented the job."

John felt his chest swell up and thought Sherlock might not take being called adorable well, so he left his mouth shut.

"The case?" he asked.

"Ugh, you'd think they leave evidence on purpose. Who hides the murder weapon in the sofa cushions?"

Sherlock looked like the world had somehow wronged him, and John chuckled.

"Are you going to eat something?"

Sherlock eyed John's still-full plate of pasta. "Are you?"

John's eyes snapped to his food, and then back to Sherlock.

The situation was nothing short of ridiculous.

"Do you want to go out?" John suddenly asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I thought this is what this was."

John shook his head with a smile. "No, I mean. Out of here. Out."

Sherlock looked at him in question, to which John just grinned widely, and finally gave a hesitant nod.

"Great. Good. Uh, let me just pay and-"

"Pack it. I'm starving."

John shot Sherlock an incredulous look, and then his grin widened. Yeah, he could do getting stood up, if it meant it'd be like this every time.

Something in Sherlock's tentative smile told him it just might.


	3. First Thing's First

"-beheaded, but the arms were still there, behind the can, and they're hers. I could tell because of the-"

John nodded along, not really listening. When other times he'd be engrossed in whatever exciting horror story Sherlock fervently detailed out to him, today he was tired and distracted and pretty worn-out emotionally. It didn't help that Sherlock insisted on being so energetic and cute today, because it killed John to have to watch that expression turn into something darker once he's told him the news.

"John? Are you listening?"

John's eyes snapped to Sherlock's face, which was alight like a thousand little candles in the middle of the bloody sun, and sighed.

"Sorry," he murmured, shifting so his arm wasn't being crushed by Sherlock's prominent spine and back muscles and put it around the other man's shoulders, instead, pulling him closer just a bit so John could feel his body against his.

"It's tedious," Sherlock spoke, and John looked up at him inquiringly. Sherlock groaned in exasperation. "I _know_ you're being re-assigned overseas. There. Would you listen now?"

John's face was askew with shock. Sherlock had _known_? "You bloody idiot!"

"What?" Sherlock's eyebrows pulled in confusion.

"I've been beating myself over how to tell you and you didn't even think to let me know you know?"

"You're babbling."

"You-"

He was cut off by a pair of incredibly soft lips, almost like a girl's, but the roughness of the kiss was definitely male. Sherlock was a very sensual kisser, right down to the fleck of a tongue. His hands immediately flew to Sherlock's hair, gripping tight because he needed something stable him, an anchor. It was a slow, deep motion that was rather hypnotizing, but that might have been just Sherlock's heavenly scent that made John slightly dizzy.

Pausing for breath, Sherlock barely gave John time to recover before he moved to straddle him. John felt like his whole body was on fire. He had never felt so alive. Sherlock's body was aligned with John's so perfectly that he could feel everything, every little muscle and every small movement as Sherlock adjusted himself on John's lap.

As far as first kisses go, John thought it was pretty damn great, and probably one of the best kisses he's ever had.


	4. Through the Letter Box

The letters came about once a month. Despite his intent to prove he was far from romantic, Sherlock sure had some picturesque ideas about long-distance relationships. They still talked on the phone every two weeks – apparently, Sherlock had connections that John hadn't been aware of, that allowed a great deal of favors – and had the chance to skype once in a blue moon, but John was homesick on his better days. It just wasn't _enough_.

It was like he was an addict, craving and nearly shaking with longing. Once he's had it, he couldn't forget. Oh, he'd never forget the taste of Sherlock, the feel of him. After he'd told him of his transfer to Afghanistan, Sherlock became nearly frantic, as if he'd wanted to consume John just in case he'd never get to do it again. For a young bloke, Sherlock understood the danger of John's work very thoroughly. It might have had something to do with the dangerous nature of Sherlock's job, once he'd become more and more involved in those cases of his.

Sherlock's letters were long and detailed, beautifully written by the genius and often described the cases he's worked on since his last letter or phone call. While most people would have found the letters gruesome and disturbing – something could be said of Sherlock's intense fascination with the dead – John actually found it humorous and was intrigued by the pure Sherlock-ness of it all. Not to mention he swallowed every word with thirst equal to that of a man coming across an oasis in the middle of a desert.

They didn't begin with the over-used, cliché 'Dear John'. Actually, there was something peculiar about the way Sherlock chose to start his letters. 'My Dear Watson'. For some reason, John felt it was extremely personal and cherished each letter in the delicate handwriting of his last name.

Sometimes, Bill, a fellow soldier, would catch him smiling secretly at one of his letters and make amused comments or just generally light-hearted retorts about John's love-sick expression or the way his face would light up when he received one of those letters, but John would only smile in agreement and resume reading. After all, he was love-sick, and his face probably did light up like a puppy that has caught sight of a chicken nugget being thrown his way.

And while John's topics of writing were not nearly as interesting as Sherlock's horrific tales, he did like to indulge in writing every once in a while. He didn't fancy himself an author or anything close to that, but maybe he just hadn't found his inspiration yet. He had a feeling he knew what it'd be.

John's letters were more often than not brief, with barely anything of interest, and never failed to end with an 'I love you'. They've never said it face to face, not with Sherlock's emotional issues and sentiment-phobia, and John's untrusting nature and fear of commitment, but it rang true in every swipe of his pen on the paper.

Sealing this month's letter to Sherlock with a swipe of his tongue, John looked fondly at Sherlock's name that he'd written into the envelope. Yeah, he couldn't wait to be back home.


	5. A Police Officer, a Consulting Detective and a Blonde Walk into a Bar

Greg was not exactly sure how he had managed to make Sherlock feel anything but contempt towards him, but he was glad for it, nevertheless. Usually the young detective was like a skittish cat, growling and scratching at anyone who came near, biting with that sharp tongue of his. Greg knew some of the guys at the station complained about his unauthorized consultant, but he'd paid no mind to the vicious whispers. Sometimes, he wondered if he should.

Solving cases was something the young man excelled at, even more than Greg would have liked to admit. He had a quick mind, a sharp eye and clearly had taken a liking to it. Greg understood, of course. He, too, liked the rush of the chase, the mystery. Mostly, though, he liked making the world a better place by catching those who threatened to destroy fine order. Or, at least, he'd like to think so.

Sherlock was mostly in it for the riddles.

The young man was like a force of nature, though. Inhuman and unapproachable. Or, at least, he was to anyone but Greg, and sometimes to Greg as well. Greg could swear the man was a robot, or at least he could until Sherlock came up to him one day and dropped this bomb –

"I'm seeing someone."

Well, shit if that wasn't one of the most dumbfounding news Greg's ever gotten.

So it was unsurprising his response went like this – "Oh."

Yes, 'Oh' was the best he could manage, but who would blame him?

"I'd appreciate it if you kept that knowledge to yourself."

"Of course."

He wanted to ask, God he did, but the thought that Sherlock might deem him important enough to tell him about his personal life hadn't even crossed his mind until now, so Greg assumed he should tread carefully. Eggshells. Or baby steps. Or whatever those psychology books his wife kept reading recommended.

So that was that, for the moment.

Only, two months later, Sherlock came up with another fact. "I can't tonight, I've got a date."

And then, a month later – "It's a man, you know. That I'm dating." To which Greg could only splutter, only for Sherlock to roll his eyes and say, "It's not a big deal, get over it. I only told you so you wouldn't be surprised if you ever met him." Met him, not saw, not bumped into, _met_. Like Sherlock was considering actually introducing them. That was a real heart-warmer if Greg's ever seen one.

And Sherlock was known to follow through his plans.

So that's how, eight months later, Greg was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair at a sandwich place with two men sitting across from him, one being Sherlock, and the other… blonde.

"So…"

"I take it he hasn't spoken much about me, then," said the blonde.

"Of course I have-" Sherlock argued.

"No, no he hasn't," said Greg at the same time, a smile making its way onto his lips.

"I told you I'm seeing John!" Sherlock insisted.

"You told me you were seeing _someone_. That's about it." Greg chuckled.

The blonde – John, apparently – surveyed them with a wide grin.

"Well, it's good to finally meet you, Lestrade. I'm John Watson, of the Fifth Northumbland Fusiliers. Sherlock often mentions you in his letters," said John.

Greg nodded. "Pleasure to meet you too. I've long ago wanted to put a face on the bloke that managed to catch this one's eye."

John laughed. "It wasn't easy, I assure you."

Greg returned his smile. "Oh, I can imagine."

"Are you two going to stop making obnoxious small talk and get to the matter at hand?" interrupted Sherlock.

"I thought this is the matter at hand," said John with a smirk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Details, details. You've met. There. Now let's go."

He moved to stand up, only to be stopped by John's hand on his arm.

Greg was astonished by how casually they touched each other. Sherlock despised anyone touching him. Once he'd even shouted at Donovan after she had put her hand on his back to catch his attention.

"I'm starving. We're at a sandwich place. I'm getting something to eat," John told Sherlock.

Sherlock grumbled but sat back down.

"Now, that's rather nice, isn't it?" asked Greg with a grin. He liked this John Watson bloke. "Any embarrassing stories about this one here?"

John smirked. Sherlock groaned.

Greg had a feeling he and Watson were going to be very good friends.


End file.
